


the robins and the crows

by cygnes



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-15 14:34:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8060086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cygnes/pseuds/cygnes
Summary: Conversations between birds.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://manzanas-amargas.tumblr.com/post/150518512505/21-with-your-favorite-robins) on my tumblr. Written for [dancinguniverse](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dancinguniverse), for the prompt "conversations with the crows."
> 
> I haven't kept up with DC Rebirth stuff, so I don’t know what the heck is going on in Detective Comics these days, but from what I’ve gleaned from the internet, Tim is currently presumed dead by everyone, but actually just trapped somewhere (a box? a pocket dimension? a mirror???). I was interested in the possible emotional fallout from that.
> 
> Most of my frame of reference comes from pre-New 52 comics (hence Barbara is Oracle), but there's some New 52 thrown in there. Most importantly, I chose to borrow Jason’s more chill relationship with the Batfam from what I read of the Batman Eternal run.

“Sometimes I think crows like me because they can tell. You know,” Jason says. “They’re carrion-eaters.”

_“Corvids are smart.”_

“All the more reason to keep their distance.”

_“No, I mean they can recognize faces. So if you’ve fed them, they might remember you.”_

“Well, in a sense, I guess I have. Since they _are_ carrion-eaters.” There are only about four crows, which probably isn’t a reasonable number to merit conversation. It’s still better than any other topic at hand. “Can they recognize masks, too?”

Someone swings up onto the rooftop behind him, landing quietly but not silently. She doesn’t want to startle him. (He guesses ‘she’ from the center of gravity suggested by the footsteps headed towards him, which narrows the list of possible Bats down to two.) He doesn’t relax. He doesn’t run.

“Just give me a minute,” Jason says. “Don’t say anything.”

“Okay,” Steph says.

“Nope, you ruined it,” Jason says. He knows he should try to be gentle with her (it must be hard, maybe hard _er_ , on her), but even the thought of it exhausts him. “What do you want?”

“I just wanted to see you,” she says. “I haven’t seen you since.” She doesn’t have to say since what.

Barbara’s had eyes on him more than usual, from what he can tell, and Steph must know that, but he understands not wanting to take someone’s word for it. Needing proof of life, sharing space with someone, is not unlike needing to check a corpse for vital signs to confirm a kill. (Not that she would. Not that he knows of.)

“Here I am.” He doesn’t turn to look at her as she walks closer, still careful. In his peripheral vision, she is telegraphing her movements. It’s enough to convince the crows that they don’t want to listen in on this conversation.

“Who were you talking to?” Steph says, looking after the departing birds.

“No one,” Jason says. “I was just thinking out loud.”

“I’ve started talking to him, too,” Steph says. So she really didn’t need to ask. “I feel like I’m going crazy.” She sits down next to him and leans back against the water tank.

“Not far to go, in your case,” Jason says. Another night, without the weight of this absence hanging between them, she might have reached over to smack him on the shoulder. Tonight she doesn’t.

“You’re one to talk,” she says.

“Oh, nice, pick on the guy who took a dip in the Lazarus Pit.” He says it without thinking, too used to making light of his own death. Steph goes very still beside him.

“Bruce isn’t taking it well,” Steph says. Well, touché, little Bat.

“You really don’t want to hear what I think about that,” Jason says.

“He’s convinced Tim is still alive,” she goes on, as though he hadn’t spoken. Hearing Tim’s name spoken aloud is more jarring than it should be. “Because there wasn’t a body. He says there should have been, that he shouldn’t have been—” her voice catches. “Vaporized. Or whatever.”

“Margin of error,” Jason says.

“When we all thought Bruce was dead, Tim was the only one who was sure he was still alive,” Steph says. “Maybe this is some kind of… obligation, for him, I don’t know. But I can’t be around him when he talks like Tim might come back.”

“It’s not an obligation,” Jason says. “We’ve just given him too much false hope. All of us.”

“I wasn’t actually dead,” Steph points out. “Neither was Dick, when he was doing the secret agent thing.”

“Me and Damian, though,” Jason says, and stops. He doesn’t think he can have this conversation. Maybe not ever; especially not now.

“Did you know Tim did fake his death once?” Steph says.

“What?”

“Cass told me,” Steph says. “She helped him. It was a team effort. And it was only for, like, five minutes. Back when he was mostly flying solo as Red Robin.”

“She say how they did it?” Jason says.

“Fake stab to the chest,” she says, nonchalant. This is an easier topic for her. She has experience faking it. She doesn’t have experience actually being dead. He hopes she won’t, not for a long time.

“Classic,” Jason says. The birds have re-settled themselves within sight, one rooftop over.

“He got a scholarship,” Steph says. Her voice has gone very small.

“What, for faking his death? I didn’t know there were competitions,” Jason says, because if he doesn’t keep up his end of the conversation, they’re both going to end up crying and mortified about it.

“Ivy University,” Steph says. “He got some kind of award for his big stupid brain.” She’s not crying. She’s not going to cry, he realizes when he looks over. Her eyes are dry, and while her voice is small, her tone is flat.

“So we know what happened to Tim,” Jason says. “But what the fuck’s going to happen to _Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne?_ ”

“Same thing that happened to _Jason Peter Todd_ ,” Steph says, mimicking his intonation. It doesn’t sound mocking. “There’s an accident. He dies. Difference is, the coffin is empty.”

“Lesser of two evils, I guess,” Jason says. “Better than a mannequin. You just know that would come back to haunt us.” He recognizes the slip too late. There isn’t any _us_ , because it’s Jason on one side and the Bats on the others. Two distinct groups, separate even when their interests align.

“Yeah,” Steph says. She scoots closer, leaving only an inch or two between their shoulders. “What were you talking about when I showed up?”

“Crows. They’re really smart,” he says. He swallows. “I read about it. A book Tim recommended. I usually go for fiction, but, hey. Nothing wrong with a change of pace.”

“Cool,” Steph says. Jason looks at her again. She looks at the crows, now keeping their distance. “Are you gonna train them or something?”

“Nah. Free spirits. No matter how cool having a crow army might be.”

Steph has what she came for. He’s alive, he knows the score. He could remind her of that and they’d go their separate ways.

He doesn’t.


End file.
